The aunty was angry at the government.

I had just persuaded her to make a donation when she started telling me her story.

Her son is (wrongly, she claims) labeled as retarded. She is pained. He has been sent to a special school for down syndrome kids although he is not one of them. She has pleaded and pleaded for a transfer to a normal school, but they have all been dead ends.

“You want me to help these kids, huh. But who is there to help us?”

Her eyes are full of desperation. The husband sits quietly beside us, staring almost embarrassedly at his newspaper.

I was taught to maximize time on the field, pitch to everyone, but I sat there and listened to her for ten minutes.

We all feel estranged, don’t we. In different ways, to different extents. Sometimes the loneliness is just burried beneath a flurry of activity or glitter-like cheeriness. It is  a lonely world. No amount of imagination can ever let someone else feel OUR suffering the way we do. Not even our best buddies.

I asked the aunty if I could pray for her. In retrospect, I wonder why and how I did that with my tattered faith. She offered to donate in the end, but I did not close the sale.

I let it go.

Do you see. It is estrangement that compels me to write.

ps: From now on I will do you the courtesy of making a note IF the comments are closed. Posts like this one are not for dissection or discussion.

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